Page 12 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Speaking of energy,” she continues, pulling out a small amethyst from her fanny pack and holding it up to catch the light, “this little beauty has been practically vibrating since I got here. Usually means someone’s about to make a life-changing decision.”
“Gee, I wonder who that could be?” I say while trying my best to not break out into a sweat.
The morning continues with a steady stream of familiar faces. Tom Brennan stops by to quietly offer help with any farm repairs I might need, his weathered hands gentle as he examines one of my display tables that’s been wobbling. Before I know it, he produces a small screwdriver from his pocket to tighten the loose bolts before disappearing to the next thing that needs fixing.
Patty Williams then stops by, bringing me a box of fresh cinnamon rolls, fussing over whether I’m eating enough and reminding me that the community takes care of its own.
Their kindness is genuine, and that makes it worse somehow. They see me as their collective daughter, Rose’s precious granddaughter who everybody dotes on.
None of them can actually save my farm, but they’ll love me right into bankruptcy while telling me how proud they are.
“You seem different today,” Diego observes during a lull in customers. He’s working the coffee booth next to mine, his scaled green chupacabra skin and pronounced fangs a stark contrast to the cheerful yellow awning above his head.
Despite being one of the more obviously non-human residents since the Great Unveiling, Diego managed to carve out his place in Sunnybrook through sheer persistence and genuinely excellent coffee. Unlike some of the other monsters who could pass for human with the right lighting, creatures like Diego had to weather the full storm of human prejudice during those initial years after the magical veils failed. Everybody, myself included, took some time to come to terms with the fact that monsters have been secretly walking among us for centuries. Some people still aren’t used to that idea yet.
“Me? Different?” I ask, trying to act oblivious to his astute observation.
“Yes. More… electric.” He hands a customer her latte with a serene smile that showcases his impressive canines. “Like you’re running on a different frequency than usual. I notice these things. Comes from being up all night and sleeping through most people’s active hours. Puts me on a different wavelength.”
“That’s very zen of you.”
“Survival skill, really. When you look like I do, you learn to read the room before you enter it.” He studies my face with those ancient golden eyes. “Good different, by the way. You look more awake than I’ve seen you in months.”
Before I can respond, Sage appears at my booth, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder and her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow looks effortlessly stylish on her angular face. She’s wearing well-worn jeans and an oversized flannel that probably belongs to whatever guy she’s casually seeing this month; Sage has a gift for keeping things light and uncomplicated that I’ve always envied.
“Diego, please tell me you have something with enough caffeine to resurrect the dead,” she says, dropping her bag with a theatrical sigh.
“Article deadline keeping you up?” Diego starts preparing her usual order, a complicated concoction with oat milk and enough espresso shots to power a compact vehicle.
“Feature piece on the new farmers’ co-op. Trying to get all the interviews transcribed before Monday’s edition goes to print.” Sage accepts her coffee and takes a long, reverent sip before turning to me. Her sharp green eyes immediately narrow in that way that means she’s about to initiate an interrogation. “Okay, what’s different about you?”
I put on my best innocent face. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because you look like someone who just discovered they have superpowers.” She leans against my table, studying my face with the intensity she usually reserves for investigative pieces. “This is post-something glow. The question is, is it post-kiss or post-sex? Spill.”
My hands fling up to my face. “Sage!”
“Oh my God, youdidmeet someone.” Her face lights up with genuine delight. “I knew it! Who is he?”
“It’s not—I mean, I don’t know if it’s—” I fumble with a jar of honey, nearly dropping it. “It might not turn into anything.”
“But you want it to.” It’s not a question. Sage has known me too long to be fooled by my deflection. “Come on, give me something. Local?”
I glance around and lower my voice. “Sort of.”
“Sort of local? What does that mean?”
I busy myself rearranging my display, avoiding her eyes. “He moved here recently.”
“Recently as in this year, or recently as in this week?”
“As in maybe six months ago.”
Sage goes very still. In a small town like Sunnybrook, there aren’t many newcomers. Especially not single men. I’m sure she can do the math on who it might be. Maybe I should have thought about that.
“Frankie,” she says slowly. “Please tell me you’re not talking about—”
“I should help this customer,” I interrupt, nodding toward an elderly man approaching my booth.
